


// Correction //

by Oboeist3



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e14 One Percent, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, It all works out though, M/M, Misunderstandings, Show-typical levels of angst, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 04:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18933403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: One of the few things that John Reese has learned about the man who knows everything is that he is always consistent. So when his romantic advances are rejected, there has to be a good reason. Of course, finding out said reason is a trek all its own.Alternatively, sometimes you've kept a secret so long you don't know how to stop.





	// Correction //

One of the few things that John Reese has learned about the man who knows everything is that he is always consistent. Every word that passes his lips has a purpose, a practicality, a reason. Even when that reason is beyond the scope of John’s knowledge, it exists. A scientific law without the benefit of parameters.

He makes special notes of the seeming inconsistent instances, writes them in a notebook with faux leather for covers the color of dark plum, because Harold can hack anything with a screen and an electric charge, but John is taller than him. He places it two between similarly shaded books in the teen section about vampires and illicit sex, and considers it as safe as can be reasonably obtained.

In those first months he goes through a pack of pens a week, hurries to put each word to paper as if he might forget them if he waited a second longer, lose the key to unlocking the puzzle of Finch. Two years later the notebook spends most of its life on that shelf.

He’s not quite comfortable in his role as the Contingency, because Harold ought to value himself more - and yes he realizes the hypocrisy of such thoughts but with him it’s true. However it does leave him privy to all the information he really cares about. He knows how the numbers are obtained, that the Machine is real, and that he trusts Harold enough not to bother looking for the man he once was.

If he had the time to ponder, their enemies only seem to multiply these days, John would figure that would be the end of the notebook’s usefulness. Until that time he is almost blown up. No, that’s not true, it was shortly after that.

When he receives a 2 million dollar watch from an obnoxious billionaire who spent half of the mission maybe-flirting with him for the sake of amusement. When the most tasteful person he knows smashes that watch under his foot with a jilted fury just to show the tracker John had already known was likely in there. When Harold’s ears turn ever so slightly pink as he mutters something about Pierce being a risk. When John Reese says the bravest, stupidest utterance of his entire life.

“Does it have to be a date just for Bear?” he asks, reaching for his hand. The wind seeming so much more shrieking than it had a moment before. The wind that carries the emotions Harold lets pass over him, surprise and alarm through something that looks almost like hope before landing on weary resignation. John’s rather familiar with that one.

“I am afraid so, Mr. Reese.” he says, and the name has never stung so terribly as it does in this instance, digging a grave for his fledgling thought of maybe. “Not for any lack of affection on my part. Indeed I have done my best not to betray my inordinate fondness of you.”

John’s head feels heavy, like he’s drunk, the all-in kind of drunk he hasn’t let himself be in almost a year now. He isn’t sure whether to focus on the rejection or the confession. He isn’t sure if any of this is real. He chews the inside of his cheek, feels the quick-nothing pain that dreams can not replicate.

“Why then?” he rasps out, too exposed to bother with a pretense that he’s anything other than heartbroken. Tomorrow, he will put it all back together, push his feelings into a mental box bound in chains and lead-lined locks. He’s earned a moment of vulnerability.

To call the ensuing pause ‘silence’ would not quite be accurate. There was plenty of noise, the background hum of the city that never sleeps, the scruffling noises of the dogs only a handful of yards away, the dull thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“I promised when we started this endeavor that I would never lie to you. I do not intend to break that promise. But the truth is that I’ve already told you, in so many words.” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets, carefully not looking at John. Normally he likes this, their push and pull, cat and mouse game. Right now he’d kill for a straight answer.

“Don’t suppose you could give me a hint, Harold.”

“There’s a book in the Young Adult section. I think you should reread it.”

* * *

Dutifully, John goes back to the library while Bear continues his playdate under Harold’s careful gaze. He makes sure his walk is unhurried, normal, doesn’t want to risk compromising the library for his own selfish reasons. But as soon as the door clicks behind him, his pace quickens, and he all but yanks the notebook from the shelf. He flips through the pages, eyes moving back and forth like a game of pong, until he reaches the most recent entry. Instead of his own neat print, there is thin, looping cursive, in much nicer ink than what he uses.

**_Corrections_ **

_Harold is an only child. This was extremely fortunate._

_Harold has always hated hospitals. The accident did not help matters._

_Harold likes baseball, but was never allowed to play._

_Harold learned to tailor out of necessity. He has grown to enjoy it._

_Harold does not believe in everyone, but he does believe everyone has the capacity to change._

He’s heady, almost overwhelmed by the wealth of information before him, but John can’t see any commonality, any thread between the disparate points. He decides to examine them one by one. 

Harold is an only child, which meant he had lied to Detective Carter. Probably as a manipulation tactic, he’d been far less trusting of her then, and the story gave a sort of loose justification for his actions. But why clear it up now? Why was it fortunate? Was it what John has suspected, that there was no family left to him? No person to threaten or interrogate for his sins? He moved on to the next point. 

Harold has always hated hospitals. Not disliked, hated. That implied volumes. It meant he or somebody close to him had spent unpleasant instances in them. Only child, so not a sibling. A parent, more likely. But then, there was the following point.

Not allowed to play baseball. Expressly forbidden from the sport. Too sick to play? John could see it easily. A bedridden boy, listening to every game that came on the radio. Fiddling with computers, because they gave him a window into the outside world. 

Tailoring as a necessity also fit with this hypothesis. Family made poor from his treatment, his body too small for the standard, and he had lots of time, just sitting there. Getting stacks of books and making a hobby out of the thing, discovering fashion. 

The last point though, it seemed utterly out of left field. It’s a noble creed, and the caveat removed some of the naïveté in his original assumption. It explains why he was even willing to give John, a killer, a chance at redemption. But perhaps it also means that he has met people who refused that change. Who stuck to ways that were wrong, and harmful. Prejudiced. 

John could only think of one way to connect that to his previous conclusions, and it explained his rejection perfectly. His fingers tremble as he closes the book, his mouth set in a hard line. 

* * *

He comes into the library the next morning, even though there isn’t a number, to find Harold sitting in his chair, waiting.

“I’ve never seen you take the medicine. A pill, or an injection.”

“Patch, Mr. Reese.” he says, matter of fact. His shoulders are tense, his expression carefully controlled. John hates more than anything that he was right. 

“I imagine you have questions.” 

“How long?” he asks, even though he should be rejecting, saying it doesn’t matter. But he can’t lie to himself, it does

“Have I known? Thirty-three years.” 

“Jesus.” he swears, because doing the mental math reveals something horrible. “You were just a kid.” A kid, afflicted with that. It’s a miracle he’s survived this long. 

“Unusual, I know. But it did provide a perspective, if you will.” he says, something that’s not quite a smile raising the corner of his lips.

“Did Nathan know?”

“No. I don’t think he even suspected. He was good, that way.”

“Did Grace?”

“I was going to tell her, when it became relevant. I died first.” 

“So you never...” he trails off. Asking the details of Harold’s sex life is a bit goading, even now.

“Even with the stigma reduced in recent years, you must know how dangerous it would be to reveal. I trusted Grace, but...it would change things.”

“How are you not dead?” Harold smiles for real.

“I’ve been lucky, and smart. I took opportunities when they became available. Used my money to fund awareness, research. Anonymously, of course.”

John swallows, taking in all that he’s learned. It’s illuminating, and tragic. If he saw it in a movie, he’d call it cheap. Poor writing. But this was real life, and John, there was something he needed to know. 

“What’s your T-cell count?” Harold just stares at him. “Never mind. It’s none of my business, I just. I don’t want it to be a surprise.”

“Mr. Reese, what does that have to do with anything?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“You’re HIV+. That means it’s only a matter of time. I was hoping to get a ballpark estimate. I’ll stay, until the end.” he says, earnest, honest. He’ll stay with Harold as his body starts to fail him, as the virus wins the long war it’s been raging. He’ll stay.

But Harold does something extraordinary. He laughs. Not the usual controlled huffs of his amusement, the quick inhale through his nose. It’s loud, deep, and a little hysterical. It has him nearly doubled over in his chair. Eventually, he starts to run out of air, trails off into gasping hiccups. John puts a hand between his shoulders, steadying him.

“John, you continue to find ways to amaze me.” he says, and oh. ‘Inordinate fondness’ was quite the understatement. Adoring better matches the look he gets. The kiss is better. Gentle, soft, filled with affection. A second that feels an eternity.

“Harold...” he says, breathless. Stolen away. “I think I’ve missed something.”

“Forgive me. I haven’t yet explained. There’s been a misunderstanding. I am not HIV+. But the fact that you were willing to stay, even through a slow and painful death. I believe in a heavy dose of paranoia, John, but I am no longer afraid to tell you the truth.”

“Which is?”

“I’m transgender.”

“Oh.” he says. This explains quite a few things, about his careful non-answers about his past, the connection between his corrections. The fact that he’s never seen Harold shirtless, much less in any greater state of undress. It’s certainly better news than him dying. “Did you think I would...” John searches for the right word. He can’t find one. 

“I had no theory at all. Precious little data. Certainly you are no bigot, Mr. Reese. That does not necessarily preclude acceptance.” he says, the words coffee bitter. “I apologize. I should never have doubted you.” 

“It’s fine, Harold. As long as you’ll answer one more question.”

“Which is?”

“Kiss me again?”

“That’s really more of a request, John.” he says dryly, but the smile ruins it. “Nevertheless, I am happy to fulfill it.” he says, and this one is much longer, deeper. He has fingers curled against his hair and the other hand pressed against his chest, above his heart. Pulling away for air is such a shame. It’s eased a little by getting to see Harold, red-faced, pleased, with awe in the furrow of his brow, like he can’t quite believe this is happening.

“I don’t suppose I’m going to get any work done today.”

“Harold, are you saying I’m a distraction?” John teases, kissing the underside of Harold’s jaw, where the stubble starts. He can feel the shudder and smirks deviously.

“Always, Mr. Reese. Always.”

John knows what he really means, and presses his grin against skin, his teeth scraping over his pulse point, making him gasp.

“Guess I’ve got a reputation to live up to.”


End file.
